


The Bellringer of Notre Dame

by Brighteyes3216



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Abuse, Abuse in the name of religion, Gypsy!Draco, Gypsy!Luna, Judge!Voldemort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Unhealthy Relationship - not Drarry, Whipping, scarred!harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-02-27 04:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13240833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighteyes3216/pseuds/Brighteyes3216
Summary: Hari, orphaned as a baby and raised by the man who killed his parents, is hidden away, out of sight in the towers of Notre Dame. Until one day, he stumbles upon someone who can free him from his horrible life.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Another of my Disney fairy tale AUs. I would say this is a darker spin on their version, but have you seen "The Hunchback of Notre Dame"? That movie is dark and should not be considered a kid's movie.

               Silently, late in the night, a boat slipped along the Seine. It bumped against a dock at the front of the fork, and three gypsies climbed out. After tying off the boat, one reached a hand down to help the fourth gypsy. She smiled as she stepped onto the dock, holding a bundle of colorful scarves to her chest. A very precious bundle.

               “Thank you, Jacque, my love,” she said, kissing his cheek.

               Jacque smiled at her, reaching out to cup the bundle gently. “You’re welcome, Lillian, my darling,” he replied. He turned to the other men. “Where again are we going?”

               “How about the Palace of Justice?” a voice suggested as figures stepped from the shadows around the group. Armor and weapons flashed under the moonlight; the gypsies huddling together. One man separated himself, his face visible in the half-light.

               “Judge Thomas Voldemort,” one gypsy gasped softly.

               The man chuckled darkly. “Yes, and you are under arrest,” he said, waving his hand at the guards, “Seize them.”

               Lillian, emerald eyes wide in terror, clung to her husband as the soldiers converged on them. Jacque glanced around for an escape. He saw a weakness in the line before them. He elbowed one in the throat and kneed another between his legs. Both guards collapsed inward. “Run, Lillian,” he shouted, engaging more of the guards. She did not need any other encouragement. She ran.

               “Round them up!” Voldemort ordered as he watched the vile gypsy woman slip down a narrow alley. He mounted his black horse, Morsmordre, and followed. The chase lasted longer than Voldemort wanted, as the woman kept ducking through small spaces he could not pursue on horseback. Finally, they reached the square before Notre Dame, the woman no more than thirty meters in front of him.

               Lillian ran up the stairs, the bundle clutched tightly to her chest. She pounded on the door, shouting, “Sanctuary! Please, give us sanctuary!”  But no one opened the door. The sound of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones grew louder, so she ran again. Unfortunately, the distance between the pair had closed considerably.

               Voldemort pulled his whip off his saddle horn. With a skilled flick, the leather wrapped around the woman’s chest. A sharp tug back spun the gypsy around.

               Lillian cried out in pain, the whip cutting into her skin. And into the bundle. She tried to flee, but she was standing on ice. Her foot slipped. She fell down the stairs, turning her back to the ground to protect the colorful bundle one last time. A sharp snap echoed around the quiet square, and the bundle rolled out of still arms to the ground.

               Voldemort sneered as he walked Morsmordre towards the body. A pity, it ended so quickly. He started as he heard a muffled whimper, which was then followed by a baby’s cry. He turned to face the bundle of colorful scarves. He had assumed it was stolen goods, but apparently, he was wrong. He dismounted and picked it up. Red blood was seeping through the decorative fabric. Peeling a corner back to look within, he recoiled in disgust. A monstrous abomination.

               He glanced around, looking around for a solution to his problem. There. The well. He walked towards it, holding the squirming bundle by the edges of the scarves, away from his body. Just as he held it over the lip of the well, the doors of Notre Dame banged opened.

               “Stop!” cried out the Archdeacon, assessing the situation, “Put that baby down.”

               Voldemort sneered at the man. “It’s not a baby,” he replied, still holding the bundle over the well, “It’s a demon, bathed in the blood of heathens. I’m doing everyone a service.”

               The Archdeacon knelt down beside Lillian’s body, and glared at the judge. “And how much more innocent blood will you spill?” he spat.

               Voldemort snorted at that. “I did nothing wrong. She resisted arrest and ran. I gave chase. It’s not my fault she fell.”

               The Archdeacon looked between the woman, the blood, the whip, and the judge. “All the pretty words will not change the truth,” he stated gravely. Three monks came out: two lifted the body of the gypsy up and brought her into the church, and the last one stood beside the Archdeacon.

               “I am innocent,” Voldemort firmly argued, though internally, he was becoming nervous.

               “It is not me that you should appeal to, Thomas Voldemort,” the Archdeacon intoned, standing tall. He motioned back behind him. “It is Notre Dame that will judge you.”

               Voldemort looked up at the cathedral. It seemed like every pair of eyes, of every statue, glared down at him. He could feel the weight of their verdict. He looked back to Archdeacon. “What should I do?” he asked softly.

               “Since the baby is now are orphan by your actions, you will raise it yourself,” the Archdeacon decreed.

               Voldemort recoiled. “But it’s a monster, I cannot possibly –“ He cut off as he saw the dark look on the holy man’s face. “Fine, but he will be housed here.” He nodded to Notre Dame. “Keep him out of sight. I will raise him, but I wanted no one to know of it.” He held out the bundle.

               With a nod from the Archdeacon, the monk stepped down and took the bundle. Cradling the baby, the monk walked back to the Archdeacon, and the pair reentered the cathedral. The doors closed with a heavy thud. The sound echoed in the silence of the square. Voldemort mounted his horse and left quickly, still feeling the eyes of the statues upon him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: 
> 
> A lot of this will no doubt sound very familiar. I based the prologue off the song "The Bells of Notre Dame", which is the introduction sequence for the movie. It serves the same propose here, setting up the background of the story.


	2. Feast of Fools (part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada! Another chapter!!
> 
> Formatting notes:  
> " ... " denotes a time jump  
> " . 0 – x . x – 0 . " denotes a perspective change.

** Chapter 1: The Festival **

              Leaning over the railing, Hari let his mind wander, and it circled back to his name. Cicatrices. At least, that is what Voldemort, his master, his guardian, called him. Said it was his name. But recently, he was not too sure of that. On night he had been laying in his loft, running his old gypsy scarf through his fingers, when something on it caught the candlelight. Stitching, small, in one of the corners. It barely showed, camouflaging almost perfectly. Four little letters: Hari. The monks said he was wrapped in the scarf when Voldemort gave him to them to watch, so this led him to the assumption that his real name was Hari. Not Cicatrices, like Voldemort claimed. He rubbed the scar that ran through his face and looked down.

              In the courtyard below, everyone bustled around, setting up for the Festival of Fools. Hari loved the Festival. All the colors, the noise, the excitement. Everyone seemed so happy. He sighed. Voldemort had never allowed him to go. _It would awaken the demons in you, undoing everything we have done to cleanse you_ , his master had said.

              Hari rolled his shoulders, feeling the days old scabs pulling with the movement. What difference would the one day make to undo eighteen years of cleansings?

              A snowy owl fluttered down from the rafters to rest next to him. Hari smiled and reached out run his finger down the owl’s head. “Today’s the day, Hedwig,” he murmured to her. He had found her up in the peaks as an owlet one winter: cute, fluffy little thing shivering under one of the small bells. He brought her down to where he slept, to where it was warmer. And she stayed. Sometimes, he swore it was like she understood what he said and could answer.

              A scraping sound across the stone floor alerted Hari to his other companion. He knelt down to allow the boa constrictor to wind its way up his arm to drape around his shoulders. Norbert had been with Hari for twelve years. When he was younger, and thus too small and weak to ring the bells, Hari would help the monks with chores, out of the public eye. He had been carrying something down to the crypt as the monk in front of him cried out. There on the floor, in the light of their torches, was a little snake. Obviously, someone had been smuggling exotic animals into Paris, and this one slipped away into the catacombs. About as big around as his thumb and barely an arm’s length long, the little thing was hardly a threat, though the monk had sure acted scared. Hari just walked up to it, making a cooing noise. The snake had curled around his wrist and promptly went to sleep. The monk, pitying the scarred orphan, allowed him to keep it, as long as it stayed up in the tower with him. Hari’s first friend. Hari felt like he and Norbert could communicate together.

              Hari smiled, scratching Norbert under the chin. “Yes, I’m going out,” he said to the snake, “Don’t look at me like that. It’s the truth.” There was a pause while they stared at each other. “Fine, _this time_. I’ll actually go. Not like last time.”

              A door banged below, jarring all three of them out of the moment. A voice called up, “Cicatrices?” Footsteps echoed up the stairwell.

              Hari looked horrified at his companions. “Voldemort,” he whispered, “Hide!” He waved Hedwig up, and she soared high, camouflaging in amongst the pigeons and doves. He helped Norbert slide off his shoulders. “Go up to my sleeping loft,” he whispered as the footsteps get louder, “My master never goes up there.” The snake slithers away just before the judge reached the platform.

              Judge Thomas Voldemort was an imposing figure. He had sharp features: brow, jaw, cheekbones. His skin was pale, like limestone. Like all the statues adorning the outside of the cathedral. But his eyes: they instilled terror. Because of an illness when he was a child, their iris’ turned red, from blood pooling in them. Overall, the man’s appearance struck fear into everyone. Including his ward.

              Hari stood straight, his head bowed. “Good morning, master,” he said.

              Voldemort bit back a smirk at the cowed look on the younger man. “Good morning, Cicatrices,” he answered, “I just wanted to have the morning meal with you before I am required to be present at the Festival.” He held a basket on the nook of his arm, containing bread, cheese, and some grapes.

              Hari nodded. He moved around the platform, gathering plates and utensils. After leaving those on the table, he took the basket from Voldemort. They then sat and ate in silence.

              As they were finishing up, Voldemort looked to Hari. “Cicatrices, how are you healing from our last session?” he asked, “That was … what, four days ago?”

              Hari resisted the urge to roll his shoulders. “They have mostly scabbed over,” he answered, “But they still bleed when I work my shoulders.” He thought of earlier that morning, when he rang the bells. His back had stung, and when he got back to his loft, he found little drops of blood scattered on the material.

              Voldemort nodded his head. “Good, good,” he said absently, “They’ll probably be healed in the next week or so. We’ll have your next session then.” One hand moved to adjust his belt, where his whip was attached. “We must keep the demons at bay, else they will overrun you.”

              Hari nearly shuddered. The way his master said that … as if he got some perverse pleasure out of the whippings. Hari nodded instead. “Yes, master,” he answered. He gathered up their dishes, placing them off to the side. He gathered his courage before facing Voldemort again.

              “Master,” he began tentatively, his head bowed. He knew how to play the meek servant. Dawning that mask with whoever he needed to appease, be it his master, the monks, or the scarce other people with whom he interacted. Also, ducking his head caused his hair to shadow his face, hiding his scars; his scars upset people. “I had a question. About the festival. Could I be permitted to attend?” He clasped his hands to appear more earnest. “I would keep to the outskirts, out of sight. I just want to be down in the square instead of up here, looking down.”

              Voldemort raised his eyebrows in surprise at the young, disfigured man. “Of course not,” he answered incredulously, “How could you even suggest such a thing? You must stay up here, for your safety and the peoples’. The abhorrent nature of the Feast of Fools would undo everything we have worked towards, letting free the demons inside you. As I have told you before.” He paused to take a sip of the wine he had brought. “Also, just being anywhere near those gypsies could be damaging.”

              Hari deflated. While he had known there was hardly any chance the judge would agree, he still harbored a small sliver of hope. That was just snuffed out. Well, he was going anyways, but he needed to appear cowed. “Yes, master,” he said softly.

              Voldemort nodded, glad to have crushed whatever rebellious streak had appeared in young man. He stood up, fixing his robes. “Well, I must leave, so I can attend the horrid display,” he said, “I will try to come back tonight for the evening meal. But if not, I will come again tomorrow.”

              “Yes, master,” Hari replied. He watched the judge head down the stairs. He waited for the door to slam shut again, before he whistled softly. A soft fluttering sound alerted him to Hedwig’s arrival. Norbert hissed as he coiled around Hari’s leg. He smiled at his two companions. “Time to get ready.”

…

              Hari scaled down the side of the cathedral. All the ornate stonework made the climb easy, and his grey cloak camouflaged him from any prying eyes. He dropped down into an alley, surveying the courtyard. So many people. He was so excited, but also terrified. He took a deep breath, made sure his hood was up, and stepped out into the crowd.

              Instantly, Hari was jostled around. Pushed, nudged, shoved, elbowed. He had never been around that many people. His panic of being discovered started to rise, and he needed somewhere to escape from the masses. He looked around frantically. There: a tent. He hurried toward it and slipped inside. He collapsed to his knees, rubbing his hands over his face as he tried to calm down. So distracted, he did not notice he was not alone in the tent.

              A woman sat lounged in a chair, just silently watching Hari. Idly, she combed through her long hair, all of the pale, wavy, blonde locks. Though she was just clothed in a robe, she seemed unconcerned that a man had just staggered into her tent. Hari was finally alerted to her presence when another blond walked past the screen that divided the interior.

              “Luna, love, do you …” the man said, trailing off in shock at seeing a man there with the woman, “What are you doing in here?!”

              Hari looked up in fright, his wide green eyes darting between the blonde woman in the chair and the blond man standing menacingly near her. “I – I – I,” he stuttered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … I didn’t know … I’m sorry …”

              With that, Hari hurriedly stood up and ran out of the tent.

. 0 – x . x – 0 .

              Draco grumbled as the stranger ran out of the tent. It upset him that someone had managed to get past him to his cousin. Anything could have happened to Luna. He turned to face her.

              “How long had he been in here? Why didn’t you yell?” he demanded, trying not sound too harsh, but failing. He was very protective of Luna. She was the only family he had, and she was too trusting of people for his tastes.

              She chuckled at him. “He would not have hurt me,” she answered, “He just needed to a moment, not used to the crowds.” He had stopped questioning why she knew so much about random people they met. She saw things others did not, and they told her things. He never asked because he was almost scared of the answer.

              She tipped her head up to lock eyes with her, silver to silver. “The lost son returns,” she said, her voice hollow, “Born of Thunder and Emerald. Stolen away, hidden, hurt. He will break free of his bonds and come home.”

              Draco repressed a shudder. He hated when Luna gave a prophecy; it freaked him out how blank his normally expressive cousin became, like it was not her that spoke. But he memorized her words. Somehow, he knew they were important. That they had to do with the strange man. The stranger with the sparkling emerald eyes.


End file.
